Of Sand and Raymond Chandler
by jenny starseed
Summary: John attempts nanowrimo. Sherlock won't leave him alone.


Title: Of Sand and Raymond Chandler, or How John Attempts Nanowrimo on the Second Try  
>Author: Jenny Starseed<br>Rating: PG  
>Character(s): John, Sherlock.<br>Summary: John attempts nanowrimo. Sherlock won't leave him alone.  
>Warnings: None.<br>Word Count: 1117 Words.  
>Author Notes: This fic is for all of you attempting nanowrimo, miniwrimo and all those who are behind in their word count. John Watson feels your pain. Let's all count our lucky blessings that Sherlock isn't our beta-reader. Originally written for Sherlock kinkmeme prompt, cleaned up and rewritten. <p>

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><p>It was a Saturday night and Sherlock was bored. All of Sherlock's experiments were finished, the results were documented and he could not cajole any more body parts out of Molly until Tuesday. And hacking into the Yard's police files had lost its interest. He sat across John, who was typing quickly on his laptop with a very serious look on his face. He has been typing continuously for a good hour now. What on earth was he writing? Sherlock hadn't had a case in over three months and there was nothing interesting on John's blog except for mysterious daily word count tally. The currently tally being 15,000 words as of yesterday.<p>

"John, what are you doing?"

"National novel writing month," replied John without looking up from his laptop.

Of course! That explained the tapping pens, the pads of paper, the copious amounts of tea consumed and the consistent periods of irritation over the state of the flat. Sherlock was slightly dismayed that he didn't deduce this earlier. John was a natural writer; of course he would attempt something as tediously stressful as nanowrimo.

"Is that why your blog is suddenly full of exasperated entries with word count status updates?"

"Yes," replied John, who was still not looking up from his laptop.

"What are you writing?"

Finally John looked up. "I'm writing a memoir of my experiences in Afghanistan. Or a semi-fictional account of them. It's a bit of an experiment really, loosely linked vignettes based on various things I saw over there."

Curious. Sherlock always wanted to ask about his experience in Afghanistan, but it always seemed too intrusive to ask. Normally Sherlock didn't care, but with John, it was different.

"Will it be alright if I read it?"

"Read it? No, Sherlock," John answered with a slight expression of exasperated horror. "You've made many snide remarks about my account of your cases; I don't think you should be near this massive thing I'm writing now."

"But you know I will break into your laptop, your password is ridiculously easy to break," argued Sherlock.

John returned to his typing. "Still no."

"Do you think so little of me that you think I will unfairly judge you on your work?"

"Yes, Sherlock," John replied with a sigh while closing his laptop. He was obvious not going to get any writing done until he has satisfied Sherlock's curiosity. "You're not above that. You can be carelessly cruel with your judgement and frankly, if I want to make my 50,000 word deadline by the end of the month, I need completely focus and confidence in my work. You have no idea how nerve wracking it is to write a novel in a month. I'm determined to finish it this year since I actually do have a 50,000 word novel in me this time."

"This is your second time then?"

"Yes," said John with a slightly cagey look. "I attempted it once, before I was deployed to Afghanistan."

"What sort of story did you attempt to write before?" asked Sherlock.

"You're going to laugh," protested John.

"I assure you, I won't."

"Yes you will."

"Jumping to conclusions again, John," scolded Sherlock. "I promise I will not judge."

John looked sceptical. "You promise?"

"Do you really think I'm so unfeeling?" asked Sherlock with a note of exasperated disbelief and hurt.

"Says the man who brought a little girl to tears," John replied wryly.

"First, she was not a little girl," Sherlock retorted defensively. "She was twelve and she was hiding her boyfriend's stolen money, which he used to fund an identity theft hacking scheme. John, you are my friend. I promise I won't judge or laugh."

John said nothing for a long moment before giving in.

"Oh alright," John replied. "I was trying to write a detective novel. A noir of sorts, a bit like Raymond Chandler. Except I was rubbish with the 1940s American vernacular, I spent hours attempting to figure out how to use the word jive without sounding like a berk. It was quite embarrassing actually."

"Interesting. So you have had practise writing about crime before blogging about my work. It also explains your tendency to emphasize the more sensational aspects of our cases together," speculated Sherlock. "You will eventually let me read it, won't you?"

"What?" asked John. "The Raymond Chandler one? God no."

"No, I meant the current one you're writing."

"Only when I'm finished." With that, John got up to get himself a cup of tea. "Did you want any tea?"

Sherlock waved off the offer. He paused for a moment, watching John put the kettle on. "If it's any consolation, I do think you're a fine writer John. One of the best bloggers I've ever had."

"I'm the only blogger you've ever had," snorted John.

"True," Sherlock conceded. "But you really wouldn't think I'd let you keep writing your blog if I didn't think your writing was very good."

John's ears perked up at that. He turned around to face his flat mate. "Are you telling me that if you didn't like my blog entries, you'd find some way to hack into my blog and delete it?" John asked incredulously.

"Of course."

"Of course," John repeated numbly. What did he really expect from Sherlock? "So I take that the very fact that you allow my blog entries to exist is a sign that I'm a good writer in your eyes."

"Isn't that a complement?" inquired Sherlock.

"Honestly, no," said John as he returned to making his tea. "But I'll take any compliment I can get now, even if it's as unnerving as yours."

"I only aim to support your efforts, John," replied Sherlock. He looked intently on John's laptop on the small table by the sofa. John didn't like the implications of that gaze.

"And this is when I should change my password," added John, feeling equally resigned and horrified. "Because you will try to hack into my laptop to find my abysmal detective novel. I might as save myself the trouble and give you a hardcopy to read."

Sherlock got up to find a red pen. "You're less than an idiot than I thought, John. Just leave it on the table after you've finished your tea. I may even help you close any plot holes you might have in the event you should ever attempt to finish it. Leave me a copy of your Afghanistan novel as well to save me the trouble of further hacking."

"You're an insufferable git, you know that?" exclaimed John. "Just don't fucking say anything about it until I've finished writing 50,000 words. Or I won't be responsible for what happens to your nicotine patches and dirt samples."


End file.
